The Castle of One's Own Self
by Dan's Diction
Summary: Being Harry Potter is hard, especially when you definitely are someone else. Sometimes, though, there are worse scenarios. Featuring bashing, ships, and more.
1. A Precious Privilege

_When you arise in the morning, think of what a precious privilege it is to be alive— to breathe, to think, to enjoy, to love._

_-Marcus Aurelius_

I woke up in the morning feeling small, an unusual sensation to say the least. When I cracked open my eyes, another observation came to mind. _I'm nearsighted. _Furthermore, the room I was in was hardly the one I had gone to sleep in yesterday. I took a moment to locate some glasses and found them on the nightstand. The relief I had the moment my gaze focussed from the spectacles gave a sense of calm to allow me to better assess my surroundings.

I was standing in a barren bedroom, and by the proportions of everyday objects, it did look like I had lost a solid foot in height. I took a moment to look at myself in the dingy mirror across the room. There was black, messy hair, green eyes, and a characteristic lightening bolt scar on my forehead. The realisation struck me. _I just fell for one of the worst clichés. _Oh yes, I'm also Harry Potter.

Normally someone would suffer a mental breakdown at becoming a character they only read about. After all, that would mean a loss of family, and anything they had built up to over their lifetimes, but for me, a generic university student with only enough backstory to fill a sentence, there were better things to do than scream. I wanted to see magic in action.

Wand in hand, I was at a loss with what spell to use. Furthermore, being a Muggle was of little use when it came to knowing wand-wavery and the likes. Then the inspiration came: "Tempus." 6:30 appeared in arabic numerals where my wand had gestured. _I wonder if I can make it display analog, _I thought when another issue came to mind.

The books always have them checking watches for the time; that spell only shows up in fanfictions, meaning a much greater problem.

To whoever is reading this, hello. I guess I'm Harry Potter, and I'm stuck in a fanfic.

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**Are you tired clichés? Well I'm sorry to say then that this fanfic will be an awful fit for you. That said, over the course of this work, various overused tropes will be introduced and exaggerated to absurdity. If you have anything that you would like to have introduced, this fanfiction can have you covered. Every chapter will, through rng, either introduce a new cliché or level up an existing one. If you like slash… sorry. I don't write that, but each chapter will introduce a new trope. Be prepared for more to be randomly added. Gradually ships will be pushed on our hapless main character through a similar way. If you want to have anything introduced to the story, feel free to drop a review of your favourite (or least favourite) cliché.**

**Tropes Introduced:**

**Dursley Bashing: (Level 1: Actively mean without provocation. Harsher than usual.)**


	2. A Fine Breakfast

_A bachelor's life is a fine breakfast, a flat lunch, and a miserable dinner._

_-Francis Bacon_

The first and most obvious mistake I made came to mind after performing the spell. I had just used magic while the trace was active; the only question to ask was if that would cause a problem. The books were fairly clear on magical misuse having consequences, but in the third movie Harry used a 'Lumos' spell with no repercussions. Given the fact that 'Tempus' was perfectly harmless (or at least I hoped), it seemed unlikely that I would get expelled for a non-canon spell.

Then a much more pressing concern came to mind. This was a bare bedroom. Harry lived in one in Privet Drive. Hence I am located there, which comes to the issue. Harry makes breakfast for the Dursleys. I rushed down the stairs as quietly as humanly possible to find the kitchen completely devoid of human life. I wiped my forehead in relief and saw an opportunity in the making. Every day I could act as a literal house-elf to them, building up gradual respect and perhaps what could be considered a healthy family dynamic.

To that end, I committed to that course, scouring the kitchen for recipes. The first that caught my eye was one for croissants, and the course fell into place. A few well made ones could serve as the basis for an elegant sandwich, with sunny-side eggs and rashers stuffed inside.

The ingredients and instructions were simple enough, and with Harry's innate memory of the Dursley kitchen, I was soon rolling the paper-thin layers of dough into the signature shape. Best of all, my instincts (or perhaps Harry's) when it came to working the bread were natural and efficient, leaving practically no unnecessary spills. The six were in the in the oven, letting me busy myself with the other components to the meal.

A tasteful amount of garlic, parsley, and basil on the eggs let out a practically mouth-watering aroma while the rashers in the meantime were happily sizzling. My instincts told me to remove the croissants, which were a perfect golden brown. The moment they were out on the counter, I went on to extract the eggs; the yolks were just solid enough to hold shape, and the rashers were a crisp yet unburnt. I went on to make the prepare the sandwiches; one for Aunt Petunia, four for Dudley and Uncle Vernon, and a last one for myself.

The skills I had picked up from waiting tables paid off next as I made simple yet elegant table settings for everyone. A few flowers from the garden made a lovely centrepiece. Lumbering thumps down the stairs alerted me to Vernon coming down the stairs. "Good morning," I said, careful not to sound too cheery. That might make them think that I would try acting nice until I slit their throats in bed.

"Grffph," he grumbled. I shrugged and moved to put a kettle on the stove. _Baby steps. _I was running through various tea leaves to choose from when the sound of the television being turned on gave me some relief form him paying attention to me. "Where's my bloody coffee you freak!" I turned around to see Vernon practically purple with rage.

"Sorry. I'll get to that right away," I answered.

His pig-like eyes continued to glare at me until I started pouring coffee grounds into their maker. "You'll pay for that." The man stomped away. Next came Aunt Petunia, whose hawkish eyes looked none too happy about what I was up to.

"Would you like some tea?" I asked her. Being proactive about this would likely be the recipe to success after all.

"Make it herbal with a pinch of sugar and a teaspoon of cream," she practically snapped. My hands found what she was probably referring to and began to brew her cup. Last of all came Dudley thumping down the stairs.

"Hel—"

"Shut up, freak." _What lovely mannerisms. I should really find some anthropologists to see if the Dursleys are the missing link. _I set the tea, set to her precise standards, at her spot and a cup of black coffee at Vernon's. Vernon and Dudley were seated and set to devour my work. Midway through a bite, however, Vernon spat his out onto the floor. _I've met Mr. Creosote in person._

"What's this blasted rubbish?" the half-walrus man bellowed.

"A croissant with rashers and eggs. I thought that you might like some sophistication to your meals," I explained.

Vernon seemed to pay no attention to my lecture. "This is one of those foods you freaks have, right?"

"It comes from France. France is made up of lots of muggles, Uncle."

"There we are. France awful because it's mostly filled with freaks like you." I was about to stop digging my own hole and offer to make something else when Aunt Petunia practically screeched. No, screech was an understatement. She howled like a banshee.

"This is filled with fat, and you were trying to feed that to our Dudders with his diet? Get him that okra."

"And some pop and black pudding," Dudley shouted. I hurried off to prepare what she requested; Dudley's was a whole different matter. He would probably hate me no matter what, and since his words carried less weight, I ignored it and came out with the okra on in a bowl.

Instead of Dudley or even Petunia paying it any attention, he was gobbling his sandwiches much like Vernon; Petunia opted to merely nibble on hers. "Where's another?" Vernon demanded, the so-called wizardness of the food being forgotten. As reluctant as I felt about surrendering the food I had set aside for myself, there was no questioning that 'request.'

The leftover okra was still there as a sadder but realistic alternative. I would have asked to finish Aunt Petunias half-eaten croissant, yet she threw it in the garbage before I had the chance. I took the okra and went into the kitchen, munching on it as I cleaned the dishes. A few bites made me realise that the both texture and taste was awful to me, yet my relentless hunger pains were a sufficient motivator. I turned around from a now immaculately clean kitchen to see Aunt Pentunia staring at me in rage.

"Who told you could eat that?" I looked at the okra; even the Dursleys were not cruel enough to tell me whether or not I could have it.

"Um…," I answered in a moment of inspiration.

"How dare you!" Vernon shouted. His fist approached my face with the precision of a stormtrooper and grace of a drunk hippo. Dodging simple; what I missed was Vernon's poor balance. The mass of blubber careened forwards and onto my helpless frame. We crashed onto the floor with me in pain yet at least feeling no broken limbs. "Get to your room and stay there until we tell you," he said, our position remaining the same. I made no delay in extricating myself and retreating there.

The door was locked, making me safe from these apparently psychotic relatives. The only consolation was that in this situation, a fanfiction would probably have nowhere to go. As if to disprove me, my reverie was interrupted by a crack that I could attribute to an apparation. There stood a pale, blonde-haired girl holding the hand of a lanky man with white hair. If those features did not alert me to their identities, the vibrant colours that adorned their clothes did more than enough.

"I don't think the Snorkack is over here, Daddy. This one's quite intriguing though," Luna said, her hand pointed at me.

"Why Harry Potter;" Xenophilius exclaimed; "sorry for our tresspassing. We must have missed the trail. No matter. The Quidditch Cup is fast approaching, and we wouldn't want to miss it. Come on, Luna." Luna instead decided to approach me.

"Can't we take him back with us? His magic core seems unique," she said while tracing her index finger along my scar.

"I doubt that he would care for our intruding on his time. Would you?" I shrugged. The idea of being with people who were at least a slight bit screw-loose was barely more preferable than my current situation. I still took Luna's proffered hand after grabbing the few belongings I had. A twist and a pop transported me from my prison.

A day later the Weasleys arrived wondering why Harry had practically disappeared after answering none of their mail.

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**Tropes Introduced in This Chapter:**

**Wibbley-Wobbley Timey-Wimey Magic: (Level 1: The concept of Magic Cores and Magical Exhaustion Introduced.)**

**Harry x Luna: (Level 1)**


	3. The Pendulum of the Mind

_The pendulum of the mind alternates between sense and nonsense, not between right and wrong._

_-Carl Jung_

The Lovegood house was as peculiar as the films had suggested or at least a rough approximation. I looked at my would be saviours; the father eyed me with the fascination of scientist observing a cell culture. Luna just stared as much as her dreamy eyes could manage, leading me to a few conclusion. Luna generally could be described as pretty. Her flaxen hair looked thick and vibrant; even her ghostly pale skin had something to appreciate, yet her gaze made me feel like I was looking into the eyes of a serial killer.

I let out an involuntary shiver. "Daddy, I think he's a bit cold," Luna said.

Xenophilius smiled, "Well aren't we poor hosts. Nothing that a cuppa tea might fix." With that I was whisked inside, seated on a purple and orange chair, and given the promised drink. The liquid looked to be a putrid yellow, probably some wizard variation of green tea. I took a sip to find the contents unbelievably tart. I spat it back out.

"Sorry," I said. "I think that the suddenness of apparation doesn't agree with my stomach.

"That's quite alright, Mr. Potter, that's just a prototype of my tea rendition of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Bean. Would you care for another cup?"

I calmly yet decisively shook my head. "I'm quite alright thanks." Xenophilius still poured himself a cup and gave me a one filled with… warm water. As Luna had gone out to a different room, the two of us sat in silence, one sipping a tea flavour that looked mediocre by his expression and me pretending to drink from my own cup. Luna came out a moment later with scones, one which I happily took.

The taste was unique yet tasty: much like eating a dessert taco. In a few seconds the remainder had settled into my largely empty stomach. "That flavour and texture was truly exquisite. Did you bake that yourself?" I asked Luna.

She blushed slightly, probably because I asked her the question mid-bite. "Yes, it was Mummy's recipe. How did you know our names?"

My reflexes saved me by quickly cramming another chunk of the scone into my mouth before I could explain my blunder. "I've seen the Lovegood names before in _The Quibbler_, and I vaguely remember a Luna from Ravenclaw."

Both of my hosts looked at me with a practically predatory grin from the powder-keg I had uncovered. "So you read _The Quibbler. _What drew you in?" Xenophilius said.

Saying any theory would be problematic since I was woefully uninformed and had no interest in learning about Umbridge being a vampire. "I've only been able to get my hands on one issue, but I love runes." That much was true albeit only due to my studies of Old Norse.

"That's a favourite part for me too. I didn't know that you took that class," said Luna.

"I don't, but I was thinking of switching over to that." The last thing I wanted was to sit through a divination class, not having the faintest idea about what I was doing. Probably that was about as disconcerting as the fact that Trelawney seemed just as clueless.

"Well;" Xenophilius announced; "Luna and I are planning on attending the Quidditch World Cup. You're more than welcome to join us or go back to that place we found you at."

"I'd love see that," I declared but for different reasons than most. Considering that the second option was practically a death sentence, the choice was really just an illusion. At least I knew that this was Harry's fourth year. With that, the Lovegoods took a few minutes of preparation before they set off to locate their portkey. It was altogether a quick process finding it. The actual transport was the hardest bit; just imagine your liver being turned inside out, travelling up your oesophagus, and throttling your brain. That would give you at least a fraction of the otherworldly discomfort portkey travel provided.

The ground hit me like a wall as I sprawled. My stomach retching let me enjoy the sparse meals I had eaten again in reverse order. I shot back up to my feet to avoid any further embarrassment, and Xenophilius was kind enough to cast a scourgify on my soiled clothes. "Thanks;" I said; "the trip was quite invigorating."

"So I gather," Luna remarked; her lips formed a half-smile, which made it hard to see her level of sarcasm. Xenophilius was already setting off with his sack slung over his shoulder. He approached a group of tents and threw his bag onto the ground. The object shook a bit before it burst open into a flamboyantly coloured tent. I guess that wizards have different understanding of the phrase 'pitching a tent.' Entering the much bigger interior, I wondered if there were any tents in the wizarding world that looked like the TARDIS. The Lovegoods busied themselves with unpacking, and I decided to take a moment to look the campsite.

Not too far away was a plainer tent patched over countless times. A closer inspection of the structure revealed a group of red-haired Weasleys bustling about. "Harry!" I heard one cry out.

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**Tropes Introduced:**

**Harry x Ginny: (Level 1: Ginny blushes at the sight of Harry)**

**Justifying House Elf Servitude/SPEW Bashing (Level 1: House Elves will die without masters.)**


End file.
